


can't deny your appetite

by callunavulgari



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 11:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: John finds out that there’s a vampire in Atlantis the day after they’ve stepped through the gate.He finds out that the vampire in question is Rodney McKay four weeks later, when they’re all hunkered down in the yawning shadow of some crumbling ruins and Rodney looks at him, his eyes eerily bright in the darkness, sees the blood on John’s face, and says, “Oh.”





	can't deny your appetite

**Author's Note:**

> This started out with me realizing that I wanted to write a fic where John is a total slut for vampire Rodney. I got sidetracked a little thinking about how the existence of vampires would put the wraith into a totally different perspective, how Teyla and pretty much everyone in the Pegasus galaxy would be incredibly slow to trust Rodney, and then I realized that if I wrote _that_ fic I'd be 20k in before they even fucked. So uh, I nixed all that and just went with the porn. Where's that shrug emoji, I feel like I need that in my life right now. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

John finds out that there’s a vampire in Atlantis the day after they’ve stepped through the gate.

He finds out that the vampire in question is Rodney McKay four weeks later, when they’re all hunkered down in the yawning shadow of some crumbling ruins and Rodney looks at him, his eyes eerily bright in the darkness, sees the blood on John’s face, and says, “Oh.”

His voice is quiet. Clear. Maybe even a little startled. His eyes go unfocused, black eating up the blue of his irises, and he licks his lips - darting and quick - but then, like magic, McKay is back, bitching too loudly and grimacing down at the control crystals in his lap.

“John,” Teyla prompts gently, her hand light against his shoulder. He blinks back to himself, heart thumping loudly in his chest. There’s a surge of adrenaline thundering through his veins that has nothing to do with the wraith bearing down on their position and everything to do with the vampire sitting a couple feet away.

John swallows down the bitter taste in the back of his throat, and wrestles his heart back under control long enough to bring them home.

It’s not like John’s never dealt with vamps before. There weren’t many in the Air Force and there hadn’t been more than a handful in his high school or college. They’d been people whose face he might have been able to pick out in a crowd, but was just as likely to claim he’d never seen them before in his life.

Rumor had it that enemy forces in Afghanistan kept a few of them on retainer, starving the creatures for months before turning them loose. John never really got to find out if that rumor was true, but it had haunted him for months in that dark desert, sleeping fitfully and dreaming of things with teeth.

He doesn’t talk to McKay about it.

McKay is crass, loud, arrogant, but generally sort of alright once you got past the immediate overwhelming quirks of his personality. He was team - one John had chosen before he’d found out about the whole bloodsucker thing - and he wasn’t about to go back on that. Not for something so petty as John being, what? A little freaked out by a decade old nightmare that some bored marines passed around a campfire at night?

No. Screw that. Screw being that guy.

He does research though.

Turns out that McKay is the _only_ vampire in Atlantis. They had made him find a group of at least fifteen willing donors before they’d allowed him on board, and from there, they’d just included it in the paperwork. Like checking off the box to be an organ donor on your license. Check here if you’re cool with being a snack every once in awhile. Don’t worry, it’s just Rodney - we promise he won’t eat you.

John had never gotten a form. But then again, they _had_ rushed through his paperwork, he thinks, watching from over the top of his tablet as McKay chastises a group of engineers, all of whom look vaguely mutinous, but certainly not _afraid_.

As he’s watching, McKay throws up his hands and goes back to whatever the hell he’d been doing before the engineers had showed up. His mouth thins at something that he sees on the screen and he sniffs, glancing up and catching John’s eyes.

He cocks his head, flashes John an uncertain smile, and that’s that. Dismissed.

.

John ignores it.

Time passes.

John goes from major to lieutenant colonel. McKay goes from McKay to Rodney. They lose Ford. They gain Ronon. A dozen things happen in between and months pass between reminders that Rodney isn’t quite human.

Rodney wears sunblock when they go out. He complains loudly about it whenever possible, but John hasn’t really worked out if it’s a vampire thing or a pasty white human thing.

He can cross running water and doesn’t seem to be allergic to garlic. He’s got a reflection, eats real human food at an alarming rate, and even on the longer missions, John’s never once seen him with so much as a blood bag. He’s stopped flinching every time someone bleeds, and generally? It’s easy to forget what he is.

He’s just Rodney. Chief scientist of Atlantis. Team member. _Friend_.

.

On a routine trading mission on P4M-778, he and Rodney get separated from Teyla and Ronon by a group of gun-toting, trigger happy Genii. Also, Rodney gets shot. Horribly. In the gut.

“You know,” Rodney remarks casually, grim eyes fixed to a spot on the horizon. “This really sucks.”

“Gee,” John says, pressing the last bandage from his kit to the wound. It soaks the blood up as fast as the last one did, and John lifts a corner to peer in, grimacing when he gets an up close look at the mess of viscera and shrapnel that used to be Rodney’s stomach. He doesn’t know if vampire guts are any different than human guts, but he does know that if Rodney were a human right now, he’d probably already be unconscious. As it is, he’s just grateful that Rodney’s still talking. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Rodney is quiet, pale in the dim light of the moon. Already he’s damp with sweat, sickly looking.

“John,” Rodney says at last, when John’s just holding the sopping wet cloth in place, hoping that pressure will help. His head is tilted back, not looking at John at all. He’s breathing slow and deep, in through his nose, out through his mouth. “How bad is it?”

On a human, the wound would definitely be fatal. A long, slow, gruesome death. Kinder to put a bullet in the soldier’s brain and just be done with it. But this isn’t a human, and more importantly, this isn’t some soldier. This is Rodney.

John licks his lips. “Pretty bad.”

The corner of Rodney’s lips quirk upward. For a moment he looks like he’s going to say something, make some biting quip at John’s expense, but he bites down on his lip abruptly, a look of frustration coming over his face. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “Okay.”

John stares at Rodney sitting there, just... bleeding out. For all that Rodney will complain until he’s blue in the face over something as ridiculous and mundane as a paper cut, here he is, looking death in the face and _quiet_.

John doesn’t want him to die.

“I never signed a form,” John says quickly - like ripping off a band-aid - when it becomes apparent that Rodney isn’t going to say anything else. He offers his wrist, feeling a bit stupid, and holds it out to Rodney. “But would it- would it help?”

Rodney stares at him, a hard glint in his eyes that suddenly makes John really _remember_ that he isn’t human. That John’s never once even come close to acknowledging that fact, in all of their missions together.

John shivers, suddenly aware of the wind on the back of his neck, the sound of gunfire and explosions in the distance. He watches Rodney swallow, and shifts, his fingers slipping sideways in Rodney’s blood.

“Maybe,” Rodney says eventually. “Probably. Okay, fine, yes. But John, this isn’t- I could kill you. You know that, right?”

John blinks at him, then back down at Rodney’s belly. He quirks an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you won’t, and you'll die without it. Think I’ll take my chances.”

“You’ll be weak,” Rodney insists, but his eyes keep dragging back to John’s wrist. They’ve gone black and huge with that eerie brightness that John remembers, his mouth sort of pointy in the dark. It’s enough to make a thrill of fear go down John’s spine, but he holds himself quiet and still. Rodney is his _friend_.

“You might not make it to the gate if it comes to a fight,” Rodney is saying grimly, and yes, his mouth is much pointier now, sharp incisors dragging against his lips when he speaks. John has to make himself look away.

He shrugs. “Don’t know if I’d make it _through_ the gate without you.”

“But-”

“Rodney,” he snaps, leaning in and pressing his wrist to Rodney’s lips before he can second guess himself. “Stop trying to be a damn martyr here. I’m _offering_.”

Rodney sucks in a deep breath, his eyes going wide as a shudder shakes him all over. He breathes out, his breath hot, and mumbles something against the skin there, tongue darting out to clean a path through the gore of his own damn blood on John’s wrist.

He looks up at John, and without looking away, bites down.

It stings a little at first, but not the way that it hurts when a dog or a snake bites you. It feels like a pinch, and then -

John’s eyelids flutter. He gasps a little, pressing in closer against Rodney, all clumsy limbs and awkward elbows.

“Oh,” he’s saying, throat working, overwhelmingly aware of just how _fast_ his dick has gone from zero to sixty, his eyes locked onto Rodney’s dark head bent low over his wrist. He bites down on his lip, hard, so he doesn’t say something like _please_ or, even worse, _I want_.

John tips his head back and waits, balls aching, his entire body keyed to Rodney’s fucking _teeth_ in his damn wrist. Mostly he tries not to come, only vaguely aware of the fact that he is losing blood, that his body is getting a little sluggish around the edges.

When Rodney finally pulls away his lips are dark, shiny and wet with John’s blood. It’s a good look on him, John notes faintly, licking his lips and shuddering. God.

“Uh,” he says intelligently, and shuts his mouth. He thinks for a minute, and then peers down at Rodney’s stomach.

He blinks down at the new skin there. It isn’t miraculously healed. John can still see alarming glimpses of Rodney’s intestines, horrible jagged lacerations that won’t hold up very well if it does come down to fighting their way out of here, but the shrapnel’s mostly gone and there’s new skin and muscle over the worst of it.

“Shit,” John says, with feeling. He looks back up at Rodney, who still has gore all over his face, and abruptly rolls his eyes. He flings the blood-soaked bandage at him and says, “Wipe your face, you animal.”

Rodney glares, licking the blood from his lips with a pointed swipe of his tongue. John’s stomach flips over.

“You’re horrible,” Rodney says primly, and then, “Okay, I might need help up.”

.

Three days later, John is standing in front of Rodney’s door. His body is a bit tingly from the couple of beers that he’d shared with Lorne and some of the guys, warm all over like a nice blanket, but mostly, John is definitely in control. He knows that he’s here, knows why he’s here, and more importantly, isn’t drunk enough to stumble all over himself during this conversation.

Probably.

He’s still steeling himself when the door slides open a minute later, an irritated looking Rodney stepping out of it and saying, “Sheppard, you’ve been standing here for ten minutes. What do you want?”

John stares at him, biting down the urge to ask how Rodney knew he was there. One part of his brain is insisting that it’s some weird, creepy vampire thing, like hearing John’s blood or something. The other - more rational - part of him knows that Rodney probably just has a camera feed rigged up. Asking would just embarrass him.

“Hello, Earth to Sheppard,” Rodney says, waving a hand in front of John’s face. John sways in response and Rodney frowns a little. “You aren’t drunk, are you?”

John licks his lips. “Not drunk.”

“No?” Rodney asks, leaning back against the door frame. He raises one dubious eyebrow when John sways again, barely catching himself against the wall.

“Okay, fine. Maybe a little.” John squints at Rodney, but that doesn’t make him remember why he’s standing here. He squints a little harder, but all that does is make his head ache.

“All right,” Rodney says, eying him warily. “Did you actually need something or were you just planning on loitering on my stoop all night?”

Oh. John blinks, remembering. He leans in until his mouth is level with Rodney’s ear and whispers loudly, “Is it that intense with everyone? You know,” he holds up two fingers in a crude, wobbly imitation of fangs, "The _thing_?"

“Jesus, Sheppard. You’re a mess.” Rodney hisses, glancing around before he gets a hand around John’s wrist and drags him over the threshold and into his room. John stumbles after him, getting his boot caught in a pile of boxers, and nearly ends up on his ass before Rodney steadies him.

Rodney props him up against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face and murmuring something under his breath.

“Well?” John demands petulantly. “Is it?”

Rodney breathes in deep through his nose and looks at John. It’s the stupid look, the one that he usually reserves for… well, everyone really. John isn’t usually on the receiving end of it.

“If you must know,” he says quietly. “I haven’t actually _fed_ on another human being for two decades. At _least_.”

John blinks. “Then how-”

Rodney sighs, and looking put upon, crosses the room to a small cooler next to his bed. He crouches next to it, beckoning John closer and watching expectantly as John picks his way across the room, carefully avoiding landmines of dirty clothes and books and ancient devices that might turn him into a mouse if he falls and touches it.

When John is standing unsteadily next to him, Rodney opens the door.

Inside, stacked in neat little rows are bags of blood, all labeled and meticulously organized by name and blood type. John stares at it, then looks back at Rodney. Rodney swallows, looking sort of uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Even if my donors were all okay with me feeding on them I probably wouldn’t do it. Well, okay, not often.”

“Why not?” John asks, sitting down heavily on Rodney’s bed.

“Think you saw why,” Rodney tells him, giving him the stupid look again.

John flushes, ears burning. “So it is always that intense.”

Rodney shrugs. “Like I said, I haven’t done it in a while. From what I remember though, the experience varies. Everyone reacts differently to the venom.”

“So not everyone…?”

Rodney smiles knowingly at him. He pats John on the leg, a bit condescendingly. “No, they don’t. It’s still a little too intimate for my tastes, so-” he gestures to the cooler full of other people’s blood, “-an alternative.”

“Hm,” John says. He stands up abruptly, head spinning dizzily. “Yeah, all right. Night, Rodney.”

“Night, John!” Rodney calls cheerily.

He trips on his way out the door.

.

The only thing is, John can’t stop thinking about it. Rodney’s lips against his skin, the hot electric feeling surging through his veins. God, even the look of his blood smeared across Rodney’s open mouth.

He systematically goes through every single archive of porn on Atlantis, even the sketchy ones that the scientists think no one knows about, but nothing - _nothing_ \- gets him off as quickly or effectively as the memory of that night.

He finds himself staring at Rodney’s lips recreationally, distracting himself in meetings by wondering how they’d look stretched around his cock. Would it be good? Better than his horrible fucking orgasmic teeth? And really, how much trust _would_ it take to stick his dick in a vampire’s mouth?

The next day John gets so distracted thinking about Rodney bending him over the table that he has to ask Sam to repeat herself twice.

“Are you all right, John?” she asks afterwards, brow furrowed with concern. John blinks, tearing his eyes away from Rodney’s ass long enough to realize that Rodney’s noticed him staring. John’s ears go red, but he refuses to look away first. Slowly, both of Rodney’s eyebrows start to creep towards his hairline, a look of incredulous surprise on his face.

“Yeah,” John tells her, eyes still fixed to Rodney’s. He licks his lips, smirking politely when Rodney’s eyes track the movement. “I’m fine. Don't worry about it.”

On a scouting mission to a planet with a rumored ZPM but a terrifyingly elaborate ecosystem John gets scratched up by some vines and offers his arm to Rodney unthinkingly, still talking calmly to Teyla about setting up camp.

It isn’t until everyone goes quiet that he realizes what he’s doing, but it’s too late to back out now, so he just arches his eyebrows expectantly and waits. Rodney swallows, throat working, his expression doing something weird.

He doesn’t say anything, and after a moment, John shrugs and turns away, bringing the wound up to his own mouth.

He does it again when he gets a knife wound during a training exercise with Ronon, and again when he gets an arrow wedged into his bicep by some overzealous natives.

“What are you doing?” Rodney finally snaps, turning to slam John into the tree that he’d been leaning against. He’s got a hand around the forearm that John had just offered him, the claw marks still oozing faintly. He shakes the limb at John, his eyes wild around the edges. “You are driving me _crazy_.”

John blinks at him, heart thumping unevenly against his ribs, and gives Rodney his most charming smile.

“Waste not, want not, right?” he says, and when Rodney doesn’t immediately respond, he shrugs and bends to fix his own mouth to the cut.

Rodney stops him, his eyes dark and angry. He sets his jaw and very pointedly raises John’s forearm to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lave across each of the scratches. He lingers over them, mouthing sloppily at the smears and tonguing the edges until each and every cut is clean, and only then does he pull away, eyes narrowed, and storm off, blood still on his mouth - leaving John slumped against the tree with a raging hard on.

Teyla and Ronon look back at John steadily.

“Sometimes,” Teyla says serenely. “I think that you are very stupid, John.”

Ronon arches an eyebrow at John’s erection and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really have to.

John coughs and goes to find a secluded corner of the camp where he can jerk off in peace.

.

When they get back to Atlantis, it doesn’t even take Rodney a full hour to track John back to his room, showing up in John’s doorway with his hands fisted at his sides. His whole body is still, the way that hunting dogs go when they catch the scent of a fox.

John greets him with a cheery smile, waving him in without a word. When he turns around, he finds Rodney’s stopped in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back.

He smiles at John - a hard, glittering little thing, and asks, all sweet-like, “Have a bloodsucker fetish, Colonel?”

John blinks once and narrows his eyes. Says, waspishly, “Have a military kink, McKay?”

Rodney inclines his head, his eyes still bright. Anticipatory. Hungry. “Touché.”

John reaches out first, but it’s Rodney who closes the distance between them, pressing John back against the wall and getting a hand fisted in the back of his hair, dragging him in until he can reach John’s mouth.

The kiss is all consuming. Rodney kisses with his whole body, kisses like he thinks, with everything he has.

His hands are quick, almost vicious in their exploration of John’s body, stroking the skin along the hem of his shirt and then sliding under, palm flat against the curve of John’s belly. His touches range from politely cursory to downright possessive, a quick stroke against a thigh here to an intense sojourn where he spends five full minutes pinching and pulling at John’s nipples under his shirt.

“So,” Rodney murmurs against John’s neck, dotting kisses up and down the column of John’s throat, stopping every once in awhile to swirl his tongue over a particularly responsive patch of skin.

“So?” John pants back, shuddering when Rodney hooks his thumbs under John’s shirt and yanks it off over his head. Rodney bends to immediately take one of John’s nipples into his mouth, circling contemplatively with the tip of his tongue. John’s head makes a thunking sound as it falls back against the wall.

“What exactly are you planning on getting out of this?” Rodney asks, looking up at John through his lashes. It takes a moment for John’s over-sensitized nipples to realize that they’re no longer being slowly _tortured_ and give him back his brain.

He licks his lips, touching the curve of Rodney’s jaw hesitantly.

“You?” he says, trying to make his voice come out hopeful and earnest. Mostly it just sounds awkward, like he doesn’t really know what he wants. “Sex,” he amends, uncertainly. He’s blushing again, but this time Rodney can actually see just how far down his chest the flush goes. “And uh. Maybe some other things.”

Rodney hums, pressing a kiss to John’s belly, right over the puckered scar he’d gotten the same night that Rodney nearly died. He kisses lower, watching John all the while as he works his pants open and slides a hand inside.

John bites his lip, head tilting back helplessly as Rodney sucks him down. He has to remind himself that this is something that he wants to see, and it takes some serious, honest to god effort to get his eyes open, but it’s worth it to see that mouth wrapped around his cock. To see Rodney’s eyes, nearly black from want, watching him.

He swallows hard, throat working, hips twitching up into Rodney’s touch.

“Please,” he gasps, not sure what he wants. The pressure is agonizingly perfect, Rodney’s mouth warm and wet around him, and he wants _more_.

“ _Please_ ,” he urges, more insistently, and Rodney pulls off of him with an obscene slurping sound. His mouth is dark and shiny, lips swollen pretty, and John wants to touch - so he does, running his thumb over the curve of Rodney’s mouth and smiling when his eyelids flutter.

“You know what I want,” John says, his voice low and creaky, because he doesn’t think he can say it, not without coming immediately.

Rodney shivers, getting a handful of John’s ass and yanking him in sharply. He buries his nose in the curve of John’s neck and breathes in deep, hips twitching up against John’s.

“What if I’m not hungry?” he murmurs teasingly, but John can feel the suggestion of teeth against his neck already, not pressing in just yet, but resting right over the skin. John grinds them together slowly, and thinks it’s a shame that Rodney’s still wearing pants.

He tilts his head, baring the line of his throat, and watches as Rodney zeroes in on his pulse. He laughs, biting down on his lip so hard that he tastes blood, and tugs Rodney in for a kiss.

“Trust me,” John croons when he pulls back, just enough to see the hint of red still clinging to Rodney’s lower lip. “You’re hungry.”

Rodney makes an agonized wanting sound, leans in, and bites.

John gasps, his whole body arching up off the wall, and basically comes immediately.

“Next time,” he pants once he’s recovered enough brain cells to speak. At some point, John had slid down the wall and Rodney had followed him down, sprawling comfortably across John’s legs. “You’re fucking me while you do that.”

Rodney thumbs blood from his lips and flashes John a toothy smile. “Am I now? And when would this be?”

John groans, flopping an arm over his eyes.

Rodney leans in and kisses him, slow and thorough, gently tugging John’s lower lip between his teeth as he pulls away. John peers up at Rodney squintily, wrinkling his nose at the smug, too-pleased grin that’s stretched across his face.

John shuts his eyes, his dick giving a twitch when Rodney licks a stray bit of blood from his neck.

“Give me an hour,” he sighs, and tugs Rodney close again.


End file.
